Play The Game
by Dingbat142001
Summary: Oneshot. Slow and steady never lost the race. Don't stop running, I'm a fool for the chase. Play the game. Surrender to me... Short little thing.


**Title: Play The Game**

**Rating:** FRK  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters or situations that are familiar to you  
**Spoilers:**  
**Summary: **Oneshot. Slow and steady never lost the race. Don't stop running, I'm a fool for the chase. Play the game. Surrender... Short little thing.

Summary lyrics: Comin' Under Fire – Def Leppard

I have 8 or 9 Katrick in any and all stages of completion and while it pains me to admit, the cancellation has bummed me so bad that it's doubtful I will finish most of them. I just want to get rid of them now, cause they make me sad to write. I do like a few ideas, so I hope to continue writing them, but only time and muse will tell.

Bear with me on this fic tho, I've never done anything like it before...

* * *

The wind pulled viciously at her hair and tore at her clothes, whipping and billowing in her haste. Low hanging tree branches caught in her hair and scraped across her face in sharp stings while rough bark carved into her hands where she would weave her way through the small thicket of trees.

Above her the moon shone brightly through the canopy of foliage and provided some light to guide her, but other than that, it was her own awareness of her surroundings and the faint tumble of distant waves that told her how far she was from the shore.

Having walked the beach and it's surroundings countless times in the past couple of months, she knew where she was, and how far her approximate distance was from the waters, which made her travels easier, but the darkness, and speed, and the adrenaline often made it hard to concentrate.

It was almost as if she were running for her life, knowing at any second she could be ambushed by some assailant planning to do whatever devious deeds, however gruesome, once their prey was caught.

She wasn't.

But the price for being caught was just as devious.

It was their thing; a more adult, or at least more mature version of hide-and-seek, tag, and cat-and-mouse all rolled into one. She was often the prey, and wherein normally she'd have a problem with that, when the punishment - or was it a reward? - was simply low-fat icing on the proverbial also low-fat cake, she couldn't deny, being prey was very much an enjoyed place to be.

No idea how it started, other than the fact that she initially had to have run at some point for whatever reason, but it usually ended the same; two breathless teenagers hopped up on adrenaline, hormones, and the night, not caring that she was already three minutes past curfew and dad would surely smell the gasoline and leather that would no doubt be wafting off of her the second she came home.

Swiftly she weaved in and out of the trees around her, never - not once - hearing the paces behind her, for her own heavy boots thundered in her ears. Grabbing the thick trunk of a tree in front of her, Kat used her own centrifugal force to pull her behind it and catapult her further.

With the aid of the moon, Kat saw two or three - yes, three- picnic tables about 20 feet ahead of her. If she could maybe duck behind one of them, he'd never know... then again, wasn't getting caught the fun part? Forgetting about the tables, she ran past them, the shore louder in her ears.

She was close.

So close.

She'd make it to the wash of white sands and...then what? No place to hide, nothing to do but continue running (in sand, might I add) or... get caught. She shuddered at the thought, panting heavily with exertion and anticipation.

What would he do to her this time? Easy - what she'd let him. Depending on her mood, the chase would be all she'd be up for, or maybe she was feeling particularly debauched enough to enjoy some public indecency. It happens; sue her. No one was around, but how was she to know if anyone heard?

Smiling, she bites her lip and eyes the shore through the trees, the smell of salt on the breeze. She can feel beads of sweat at her temples and the cuts from bark on her hands. She can hear her own heavy puffs of breath, and the thumpthumpthumping of her boots. Better yet, she can taste the heady mixture of man (yup, sorry dad) and allthingsbad that always coats his skin and tongue. It waits, and it saturates, and it oozes, and like cocaine or heroin, is more potent and fulfilling if there's a longer gap between shooting up. (Not that she's ever done cocaine or heroin.)

Oh God, what he'll do her. And my God, what she'd let him.

Fifty feet from the beach, she can hear it, smell it, see it, so close she can almost touch it. Then again, wasn't the whole point to get caught?

She slows down a fraction and before she can let out a scream, she's bodily flung against a tree, wrists held above her head with one hand, a hot, unrelenting mass of man (again, so sorry dad) panting, and burning, and _throbbing_ at her front.

She moans - not from pain, never from pain - when his free hand tangles roughly in her hair and pulls her head to the side, and he's licking, and sucking, and biting, and _oh sweet mother_ yeeesssss! He's got her hands, but her legs work fine. She wraps one around his hip, but the other stays put because, quite frankly, she's been running for a while and they kinda ache.

He chuckles dangerously into her neck and releases her hands, like he's sure she's not going to do anything against him. She threads one through his hair, angling his head at her throat (she's a feminist, and if she can be manhandled, so can he), while the other grabs and pushes and pulls until his smooth leather jacket hangs at his elbows.

Much to her displeasure, he pulls away and raises his head to meet her eyes, both still panting, and nothing but dirty deeds on his mind.

"You're impatient today, aren't you?"

"You're the one who took forever to catch up," Kat says, scraping and tugging on Patrick's hair and receiving a groan in reply.

"I like staring at your ass."

Kat snorts and yanks his jacket till it falls to the ground, "Get on with it, or you'll be really staring at it as I leave."

She's half an hour late for curfew.

Sorry, dad.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_I've never written anything...err dark, and I wanted to give it a try. I know, it's not all that dark, but it's darker than what I usually do.~ Kat's not being spiteful or going against what Walter wants. She just can't help it. ~ Like I said, I have other Katrick in the works. I hope I find the desire to finish them. ~ ABCF is stupid, but after weeks of anger and bitterness, I have come to a level of acceptance. It's sad. ~ As of right now, I have 13 Katrick fics... what am I going to write after it's over? :(


End file.
